Tell me, O Octopus, I begs,
Is those things arms, or is they legs?
I marvel at thee, Octopus;
If I were thou, I'd call me Us.
Pretty, pretty eggs.
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
-Robert Louis Stevenson
Ever hung out with your son in the backyard, flushing pig intestine out with a garden hose? Ah, that's what memories are made of.